


Vessel of The Fell Dragon

by Kurakynr



Series: A Tactician Formerly Known As Glenn Fraldarius [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Gen, Glenn Fraldarius Lives, Glenn Fraldarius is Robin, Kidnapping, Minor Character Death, Robin is Glenn Fraldarius, The Grimleal, Validar is a Bastard, loss of memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurakynr/pseuds/Kurakynr
Summary: In the aftermath of Duscur, Glenn finds himself an ocean away from home and in the clutches of an organization hell bent on the resurrection of The Fell Dragon. Even after being forcefully being made into Grima's vessel, Glenn's plans haven't changed. He is going to escape the Grimleal and find a way home...before he forgets who he is entirely.
Series: A Tactician Formerly Known As Glenn Fraldarius [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657195
Comments: 39
Kudos: 47





	1. Prisoners

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Tactician of the Azure Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22143604) by [UnknownHorizom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknownHorizom/pseuds/UnknownHorizom). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1176, Lone Moon to 1177, Great Tree Moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m rewriting ‘A Tactician Formerly Known As Glenn Fraldarius’. I love the story, but I admit I kinda rushed into it the first time. The story will be more satisfying this way, I think.
> 
> Deepest thanks to UnkownHorizom for both writing the original fic that inspired me and for being an excellent brainstorming/world building/idea partner.

When Glenn awakens, a stranger is shaking him softly. 

Glenn claws his way back to consciousness; his eyelids flicker open. Glenn’s amber eyes meet the stranger’s hazel gaze and the gentle shaking stops. The stranger whispers something as he places a hand on Glenn’s forehead. 

“Quit it. Go away,” Glenn grumbles, weakly trying to bat the unknown’s hand away from his face. The Fraldarius heir does not appreciate the invasion of his personal space, but his arm feels like it's made of solid lead _and_ weighed down by plate armor. So Glenn fails and the stranger continues to hover over him. 

“Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?” the stranger asks, ignoring his demand. Instead of retreating, the stranger gives a relieved smile and waves a hand in front of Glenn’s face. Glenn recoils and tries to pull away from the stranger. He winces as his skin scraps against the sandy stone floor. The stranger immediately pulls his hands away from Glenn, but continues to lean over him. “Right, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

The hazy fog of sleep has completely cleared Glenn’s mind and several facts click into place simultaneously. Glenn does not recognize the older boy’s grim smeared face nor his ratty ginger hair. The realization that a complete stranger is both in his space and had just been _touching_ him hits Glenn in the same instant his memories of Duscur come rushing back.

Dimitri’s screams ring in Glenn’s ears. The spray of blood as His Majesty was beheaded flashes in his mind’s eye. Glenn’s last clear memories are of fighting for Dimitri’s and his lives in Duscur. Of racing through the burning wreckage of the caravan with the prince, trying desperately to find a way for them to escape. What happened next is a muddy blur; a jumbled mess of flashes. 

He has no idea of the where, hows, whats, and whys of his situation, but he knows he is not in a healers tent or medical wing. His comrades are absent, Dimitri is gone, and Glenn is in a vulnerable position with an unknown party dangerously close to him. So Glenn slams his fist into the possible hostile’s face. 

The force of the blow causes the other boy to rear away from him as he stumbles backwards into a wall of evenly spaced iron bars— _cell bars_. “What the fuck man!? I was trying to help you!”

“You got off light,” Glenn snaps, pushing himself up into a sitting position. The minor exertion makes Glenn’s arm tremble, flooding him with questions and anxieties about his physical condition. How long have his muscles gone without use? Glenn’s mouth tastes of sandpaper and his entire body feels weak and lethargic. “You were in my face and I don’t know you. What did you expect?”

“Not to be assaulted?” his cellmate scowls, plopping himself down next to the cell wall. He narrows his eyes at Glenn while holding a hand to his injured cheek to soothe the pain. “ _Cethleann_ , that really hurt. Where did a brat like you learn to punch like that?” 

“I’m a knight.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be a knight,” the other boy asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Don’t you mean squire?” 

“I am Sir Glenn Athens Fraldarius, Knight of The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and memb‒” Glenn snaps, bristling at the comment about his age. He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying ‘ _and member of the Royal Guard._ 'Now is not the time to allow his pride and temper to best him. There are more secrets to be tortured out of a royal knight than a standard one. “‒and members of the nobility are trained with a blade from the time they are capable of holding one.”

“You’re a noble?” the other boy asks, noticeably paling. “Uh, please forgive me for doubting you, milord. I must admit I am ignorant of Kingdom customs, but to be a knight at such a young age must be an impressive feat. I take it you are a talented and skilled fighter then?” Despite the deferential tone the ginger has adopted, there is a calculating gleam in his eyes.

The way his cellmate just reacted heavily implies the boy isn’t a noble and the Empire accent is hard to miss now that he is listening. Why is he being kept in the same cell as a random Adrestian commoner? Setting aside the difference in status, Glenn was captured in Duscur.

“ _Yes_ , I can fight,” Glenn nods sharply as he accesses the other boy. He needs answers so he demands them. “Now, tell me who you are and how you ended up here.”

“Great, great because I can’t,” the other boy softly mumbles under his breath, clearly unaware of the other’s perception ability. Glenn doesn’t comment and the ginger dips his head and continues at normal volume. “Uh, my name is Elias, Elias Brandt. I’m from the Duchy of Aegir and I wa‒ _am_ an apprentice apothecary. Master Lorane discovered and reported my Crest to Duke Aegir. I was summoned to the castle...and I don’t remember what happened next. I woke up here.”

“Which Crest?” 

It takes a few moments before Elias answers. The topic of his Crest is clearly a subject he is uncomfortable speaking about. Which, given the common realities of Crestbearers unclaimed by Noble Houses in Fodlan doesn’t surprise Glenn. “...Minor Crest of Saint Cichol. Why?”

From a bastard Aegir line then. Not unexpected given the tendency of nobility to keep such bastard lines close in case a Crest appears–Glenn is pretty sure that the stable master of Castle Fraldarius is Father’s second cousin. And House Aegir already has a Crestbearer heir, they would have no need for a spare from a bastard line.

“Common denominator, we both have Crests. I have a Minor Crest of Fraldarius,” A Major Crest of Fraldarius actually, but Glenn is not going to say that while being held captive by possible Crest snatchers. Sreng, maybe? The sandstone architecture would fit Faerghus’s northern desert neighbor better, but there is also desert territory in Almyra and the Alliance.

“You both have Crests?” A new, female, voice speaks up from the shadows, drawing the boys’ attention to the adjacent cell. It’s hard to make out the details of the girl’s face in the dim light of the dungeon. Glenn recognizes the Gloucester purple hair though, but her dark Alymran complexion rules her out as a member of the Noble House’s mainline. He isn’t sure, but she appears to be in her mid to late twenties.

“You have a Crest too?” Elias asks, shifting so that he is facing their fellow prisoner. 

“Yeah, I have a Minor Crest of Gloucester. My name is Aversa,” nods Aversa, introducing herself and then gesturing behind her to a girl with mousy brown hair further back in her cell. “This is Amelia Roads, she has a Minor Crest of Saint Seiros.”

His Crest snatchers theory is looking more and more likely by the minute. _Fuck_.

* * *

The first one to be taken is Amelia. 

The people who come for her dress in deep purple robes and wear veils attached to headdress shaped like snake skulls. They don’t speak a word as they drag Amelia out of the cell. Aversa tries to protect the younger girl, but a blast of magic sends her sprawling. Glenn is helpless to do anything except watch as they carry Amelia away, kicking and screaming up the winding staircase that is the dungeon’s only exit.

Her cries echo off the stone walls, growing fainter and fainter until vanishing all together. The following hours are spent tensely waiting and whispering. They don’t know what to expect. What their captors are doing to Amelia or what they intend to do to them. Elias is optimistic, Aversa is pessimistic, and Glenn keeps his own mouth shut. 

Glenn listens to Aversa pick apart the many escape plans that Elias has brainstormed, occasionally adding his own two pence in. He has no intention of remaining passively in his cell waiting for their captors to ransom (unlikely at this point) or sell (more likely) him, but an apothecary apprentice and a scribe have little hope of fighting their way out on their own. Glenn will figure out his own plan of escape; with the other two-three if he can...but he knows that saving everyone isn’t always a feasible option.

Hours later, they return Amelia to the dungeon. 

This time, she doesn’t fight their captors as they carry her down the stairs. Her body is limp and trembling when her door is opened and she is unceremoniously thrown inside. Glenn can faintly hear her crying, but he doesn’t get the chance to find out what had been done to Amelia.

Because they come for him next.

Like Amelia, Glenn tries to fight and is marginally more successful than she and Aversa had been as the only one of the prisoners with combat training. He manages to break a nose and arm before being restrained. Glenn struggles against them as they take him away, but his muscles are weak from disuse and they use magic.

They climb seven staircases and take Glenn to a giant room lit with torches and filled with more cloaked figures. There are runes and glyphs covering the walls and the center of the room is dominated by a magic circle. Glenn shivers, even to a non-mage the dark magic is palpable, hanging in the air like miasma. 

He is forced into the circle, bound in place and the chanting starts. The dark energy thrums and surges, seeping into Glenn. It is a nauseating experience and the magic makes every cell of his body burn, but it’s not agonizing the way he expected after seeing Amelia. When the chanting ceases and Glenn is returned to his cell, his body aches and his head is pounding, but he is otherwise fine. 

After Elias is taken, he returns in a worse state than Amelia.

* * *

Following that day, a routine was established. Every ‘day’ the cultists came first for Amelia, then Glenn, followed by Elias, and then finally Aversa. They were taken to the ritual room, forced into the magic circle, and infused with dark magic. Over and over and over again without reprieve.

Elias died after the seventh day, but he was gone on the fifth. 

The once energetic boy laying listless, in pain, and exhausted on the cell floor. His once ginger hair bleached a dull colorless white. None of the survivors liked to think about Elias’s death. It had been...messy. Less wasting away and more melting from the inside out. 

A gruesome fate.

Amelia joined Elias on the twelfth. 

Glenn stopped counting after day twenty. 

Aversa was going to start fading soon. They both knew that. Her hair was losing its color, lightning to the same white that Elias and Amelia had died with. She was getting weaker and weaker every time they took her away. 

He wasn’t even sure it was actually dark magic that was killing them. Glenn had been unfortunate enough to hit by dark magic before. Whatever this was, it felt leagues more oppressive and _other_ than what Glenn had experienced. The energy felt ancient and alien and _alive_.

Still, Glenn was faring better than Aversa. His hair was still dark navy blue, without a trace of the white that foretold encroaching death. The growing pool of dark magic bubbling under his skin was sickening, not debilitating. 

Glenn wasn’t dying like the others.

And that fact pleased their captors—the Grimleal—greatly.


	2. GRIMA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1177, Great Tree Moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glenn is not always the most reliable narrator.

Something is different the next time the Grimleal come for Glenn.

The cultists are always gleeful, but today his captors radiate a giddy, manic energy that immediately sets him on edge. He doubts whatever is putting the bounce in the Grimleal’s step means anything good for him or Aversa. The door that they choose to unlock is Glenn’s and dark magic is puppeting his body—denying him any opportunity to attack. 

Glenn _knows_ something is different when they march him up and pass the corridor that leads to the ritual chamber. He and the Grimleal keep climbing upwards up staircase after staircase. The ritual chamber is left far below. 

Twenty-sixth floors above the dungeon, the Grimleal turn off from the main passage into a side corridor. A five minute walk and he is brought not to another ritual room, but some kind of bathing chamber. The magic circle is replaced by a pool and attendants replace the hooded chanters. 

Instead of funneling dark magic into him, the Grimleal proceed to march Glenn into the bath. They scrub his hair and skin free of grease and dungeon grim. His hair is cut and combed. His tattered and dirtied clothes replaced by black and purple robes not unlike the ones worn by the Grimleal themselves—just much nicer. There are no mirrors for Glenn to glimpse his reflection, but he feels like he has been prepared for a formal ceremony or ball. 

With the magical strings controlling his body, Glenn can’t fight so he watches. Every scrap of information he obtains, from the number of stairs climbed to what little he can gather about the Grimleal’s inner workings, is one more piece of the puzzle that might aid in his escape.

The attendants are dressed in the same colors as the Grimleal, but lack the bone and golden ornamentation. They don’t possess the red eyes and won’t meet the eyes of the red eyed cultists who brought Glenn to them. Servants who are lower members of the cult, Glenn guesses. 

None of the attendants will meet his eyes either and are quick to avert their eyes when Glenn tries to meet theirs. Their touch is comparatively gentle too. A degree of care is paid to his comfort. The combing will pause for a moment when a snarl is hit and he hisses. The quality of nail file they use on him is far beyond what would ever be used on a prisoner. Every item Glenn can see them use is expensive and would look at home in a noble dressing room. 

This new treatment is equally confusing and alarming. It does not fit with any of the Grimleal's past actions. Glenn tries to demand answers or needle information out of the attendants with more subtle lines of questioning to no avail. Not one of them speaks. Not the attendants nor the robes Grimleal cultists. Nobody has spoken since opening the door to his cell. 

Once the Grimleal are satisfied with Glenn’s appearance, he is led down the hallways back to the staircase and the climbing resumes once more. He tries to keep count of the number of steps, but there are simply too many for him to track. 

Eventually they reach the top and the climbing stops, there are no more steps for them to ascend. Leaving the endless spiral of the staircase, they enter a maze of corridors. Glenn is led through the twisting and turning labyrinth of passages and hallways until they arrive at a set of ornate golden double doors barring a six eyed symbol. It’s reminiscent of the eye patterns the Grimleal’s cloaks bear.

A word is spoken by one of the Grimleal and the doors creak open to reveal the world beyond—

 _Outside_.

After weeks spent in a dimly lit dungeon, even the gentle light of dusk is almost blinding. Glenn’s eyes sting, but he cares not. He is outside, above ground, and the closest to freedom that he’s ever been. 

Exiting the underground, Glenn sees the lavender sky and feels the breeze on his skin for the first time in weeks. He stands in a desert that extends as far as the eye can see. The vast expanse of the sea of sand broken only by the distant silhouette of a single castle in the horizon, a scattering of half buried ruins, and the massive temple-like structure before them.

The style of the structure’s architecture is not one that Glenn recognizes. He can tell the building is foriegn to Fodlan, but it doesn’t look Sreng like he expected either. It’s not the smooth edges and lines that the Sreng prefer at any rate. If anything, staired four-sided pyramid asetetic of the building reminds Glenn vaguely of the ruins found in the Red Canyon. 

Glenn’s architectural analyses are cut short though, the Grimleal make him walk up the stairs carved into the sloping sides of the structure to the flat table top of the pyramid. A mass of Grimleal silently greet him there, hundreds of pairs of glowing red eyes watching him. There is an altar in the middle of the table—human sacrifice? 

The magic controlling him, forcing Glenn to walk to his death held firm against his increased struggles. The strings of magic only snapping and freeing Glenn once the Grimleal had chained him to the altar, having released the spell of their own accord. He pulls on and against the chains, but they don’t give an inch even when his Crest activates. His bonds have been magically reinforced just like the cells.

How did a foriegn cult get their hands on Crest proof bars and chains? 

A tall man with red eyes, a long black beard, and Duscaran-like complexion approaches Glenn holding a golden goblet with both hands. The man is dressed differently from the others, the design of his robes more distinguished, ornate, and somewhat similar to the Archbishop’s regalia—though a lot more revealing. Glenn guesses the man is one of the Grimleal’s leaders or head priests. 

“Lord Grima, I offer to thee this sacrifice,” the man says, raising the goblet overhead in long claw-like fingers as he speaks the first words Glenn has heard since leaving his cell. “May the blood of your heart beat anew in this chosen vessel. With your resurrection, we welcome the End.”

 _“Heretics_ ,” Glenn spat with contempt. All the pain and death the Grimleal have wrought for this. Was this farce what Elias and Amelia died for? For some false prophet or god? The Grimleal will likely kill him once their ritual inevitably fails. If Glenn had more information he’d try to fake it, but he’s been kept in the dark about the cult’s beliefs.

The head priest chooses not to acknowledge his comment and just smiles a wicked smile as he presses the goblet to Glenn’s lips. He tries to pull his head away; he will not drink it. With it so close, Glenn can see the contents inside: a blackish red-purple liquid fills the cup. The metallic smell makes Glenn gag, an opportunity the man seizes to pour the goblet’s contents into his mouth. 

A distinctive taste of copper floods his mouth _._ Glenn attempts to spit the actual _blood_ out, but the man doesn’t stop pouring. The angle that leaves Glenn with no choice but to swallow or drown. The black blood burns on the way down, it's so thick with the familiar dark magic that he can practically taste it. The goblet is pulled away once the head priest is satisfied all of the blood has been forced down Glenn’s throat.

Glenn gasps for air and spits the little of the blood remaining in his mouth at the man, hitting his cheek. He feels sick, more so than he had ever felt before. His breathing is heavy and the Grimleal are watching him with baited breath and apprehension. 

Expecting him to die? He won’t. Glenn refuses to die here, leagues away from home, to the Grimleal, and in a _fucking Srengesse desert._

His vision is swimming and the dark energy is spreading through his body. Before, it had felt like the energy had clung to him like smoke, permeating through his body like a miasma. An energy that was in and on him. Now, Glenn can feel the energy becoming a _part of him._ Traveling outward from his chest‒his stomach‒through his veins like blood. He can’t tell whether the energy is incorporating itself into him or him into it. 

It _hurts_.

Glenn can hear himself screaming and the pain is mounting by the second.

Then the world _freezes, splits,_ and _he exists in two worlds at once_.

In one world, Glenn is still bound to a blood stained altar under a twilight sky. He is in a desert, thrashing and struggling against the chains binding him in place. He is screaming his throat raw in agony as dark magic devours him. The horde of Grimleal watching on.

In the other, the head priest and the cultists are absent. Glenn stands in a desolate wasteland under a sky devoid of sun or stars‒neither night nor day, yet the world is illuminated in a harsh red glow. He can still feel the sensation of overwhelming dark magic coursing through his physical mortal body, but here the feeling is muted. Glenn is grateful for that. It’s an escape from the all encompassing _stopstoppleasesothisjustmakeitendplease_ engulfing the half of his psyche trapped in the real world.

The real world, because this second realm Glenn finds himself in is something decidedly _else_. Less solid in a way. A place where existence is less defined by physical form than by essence. In the distance, the landscape is scattered with pillars of slowly rising debris, boulders and the broken remnants of destroyed buildings floating upward in defiance of gravity. He watches poisonous purple clouds drift against the backdrop of a bloody crimson heaven like a detached specter in another person’s nightmare. Only half present in the ruins of a devastated hellscape. 

Yet.

He is not moving, but something is pulling him closer to this world. The floating pillars of distant debris become sharper and the miasma of dark magic is growing thicker.

And then Glenn isn’t alone.

Looming over the dream world is a nightmarish horror. The being so incomprehensibly massive that Glenn can only describe the entity’s serpentine body as consuming the sky itself. It is an otherworldly abomination. Three sets of feathered wings flap above like thunder, he would call the wings pegasus like if not for wyvern like joints. (More than a wyvern or pegasus, the entity reminds Glenn of The Immaculate One). Merely looking at it makes Glenn’s eyes ache, but he is unable to tear his eyes away from the beast. His courage crumbles, primal terror seizes his soul. 

He is frozen before the colossal. 

Unable to move, unable to breath, unable to _blink_.

Utterly _helpless_.

Some might have mistaken the abomination as a monster, but Glenn knows better; that _thing_ was no monster. As a knight and squire, Glenn had fought monsters before. The abomination is so impossibly beyond the level of mere monsters or even of black beasts Glenn wants to laugh. Like comparing a single snowflake to that totality of an Ethereal blizzard. The difference of power is so vast as to be incomprehensible beyond the knowledge it exists.

_Glenn looks at the nightmare and the nightmare looks back._

Six glowing ruby eyes pierce through the darkness and see the hapless human offered up to it. Each of the monster’s six crimson orbs gleams with untold cunning and malice. The weight of the nightmare’s attention presses down on Glenn.

I AM THE END.

SUBMIT AND.

LET US DREAM THE SAME EMPTY DREAM.

AND BRING RUIN TO THIS WORLD AND PLUNGE EVERYTHING INTO DARKNESS.

Glenn is drowning in fell magic as GRIMA bares down on him, entangling their minds and souls. 

He is screaming in both worlds now. Barely aware of the mark edging itself onto his skin nor the man inspecting it. And as the darkness consumes him, he does hear the proclamation “Heart of Grima.”

Glenn _understands_. 

* * *

The Grimleal wait for Glenn to come to before they unlock his chains and carry his limp body away from the Dragon Table and altar.

And they do not return Glenn to his cell. Instead descending back down the twisting staircases leading to the dungeon catacombs, they take him upwards in the opposite direction until the procession reaches a pair of metal doors. This time, they do not simply throw him to the floor, they gently carry him and revelently set him down on a massive bed before retreating, locking the doors behind them.

Several days are spent sleeping or staring up at the giant mosaic of _GRIMA_ on the ceiling. Glenn sees nightmarish visions of the Fell Dragon whether his eyes are open or closed, asleep or awake. He can feel the thrum of _GRIMA_ ’s power from the sliver of its essence the horror had embedded into his soul. A tiny insidious fragment of malevolent power.

In the face of _GRIMA_ , it takes everything Glenn has to stubbornly cling to his defiance and refusal to submit. Surrender means both his own death and the destruction of _everything_. He doesn’t want to die yet, but knights young and old die. So Glenn might be able to bitterly come to terms with his own end, but he would never stand aside and accept the same for everyone and everything he loves. 

Not _Felix_. Not _Father_. Not _Mother._ Not _the prince_. Not _his little sister_. Not _his home_. Not _the Kingdom_.

Eventually, _GRIMA_ ’s presence fades away into the background of his mind and soul. Not gone, never gone, more...asleep? No, waiting. Glenn has won the battle of wills _this_ time. A temporary reprieve, but one Glenn is nonetheless grateful for. 

After that, it takes time for him to piece enough of himself back together again for him to take stock of and investigate his new situation. 

Sitting up, it is immediately apparent his new prison is extravagant. The room is several times larger than his dungeon cell and is lavishly furnished in a style Glenn does not recognize. Still, the room is reminiscent of the kind of quarters used to hold captured royalty in a way that makes Glenn scowl as he climbs out of the bed. 

The reason behind the Grimleal’s sudden shift in his treatment isn’t hard to figure out: Grima.

A flash of white in the corner of his vision catches Glenn’s eye as he stands up. There is a fancy gold trimmed mirror above the bedside table. For the first time since leaving for the mission, Glenn sees his reflection and his reflection’s hair is short and very much not blue.

Glenn’s hands fly to the back of his head, feeling for the pins that hold his hair back in a messy bun. He finds nothing. His hair has been cut shorter than his brother’s best friend and Mother’s pins are _gone_. Glenn’s heart clutches as he combs his fingers through his hair, checking to make absolutely sure he didn’t just miss the pins. He tells himself losing them isn’t the end of the world, he still has six in the dresser box back home. 

The self-reassurance does little to soothe the grief.

So Glenn shoves his emotional whirlwind and the matter of the missing mementoes down and away. Pulling a lock of his bangs down harder than strictly necessary for inspection. There isn’t a trace of his family’s characteristic navy blue. Glenn’s hair is a stark white utterly devoid of any color pigmentation. It’s the white of freshly fallen snow and without even a hint of grey.

 _Grima_.

His fist slams into the mirror and it shatters. He does it again and then once more. His Crest activates on the third strike, obliterating both the mirror and its frame. Glenn lets out a deep breath and backs away from the destruction. Unclenching his fist, Glenn winces. His left hand is bleeding and there are some mirror shards that need to be pulled out. 

Deliberately ignoring the sofa and chairs, Glenn sits down on a part of the floor not covered in embroidered carpets depicting the Fell Dragon. He rips the tablecloth off the _coffee table_ —sending the _fucking teapot_ crashing to the floor—and shreds the fabric into bandage strips. Glenn waits to deal with the vivid purple brand marring the skin on the back of his right hand until he stops the bleeding in his left.

Once the mirror shards are removed and the wound bandaged, Glenn raises his hand above his head to inspect the mark on his right hand; glaring at it with contempt. At a glance, Glenn knows with bone deep certainty the sigil is Grima’s. The six stylized eyes and twisted jagged lines of the design _look_ and _feel_ like the Fell Dragon. The design is gaudy and ugly. Something Glenn would expect to find on a band of bandits trying to be inteimiating’s flag, not the sigil of a deity. 

The Goddess had much better design sensibilities when she bestowed her blessing, Glenn thought vindictively. He might be the one stuck with the accursed Brand, but he’ll take his satisfaction where he can. His family’s Crest, with its purposeful and clean lines that came together to form a stylized shield, is leagues better. 

Still, the similarities between his Crest and the Brand are as apparent as the differences—if not more so. Filled with rage and loathing as he was, Glenn’s mind is still analyzing. Had Grima and the Grimleal performed a bastardized corrupted version of what the Goddess had done to give fragments of her blessing and power to her chosen champions against Evil King? The idea makes Glenn sick, but it is a possible theory so he couldn’t dismiss it. No one knows how the Goddess passed on her power. 

...And Grima did share an uncomfortably resemblance to the Immaculate One. 

When Glenn escapes the Grimleal, the first thing he will do is go home to his Father and brother. Then, he is enlisting Father’s help to talk to the Church about Grima without getting executed for heresy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grima does canonically refer to himself as The End. Didn’t pull that parallel to Sothis out of nowhere. I borrowed the line “Let us dream the same empty dream” from the Slayer’s Shabranigdo fight. The line was stuck in my head as I was writing this and worked to well not to include it. The full line is: “Walk the path with me, let us know destruction together, let us dream the same empty dream.” Total Grima vibes, no?


	3. Validar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1177, ???.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The power balance between Validar and Glenn is really unequal. The amount of power and control Validar has is...not fun for Glenn to put it lightly. He has little choice but to dance to the music until he gets a chance to run for it.

There is dreadfully little in Glenn’s new cage for him to effectively weaponize; however, he does his best. He can make do with what he has, he’ll just have to be creative. 

The furniture is quickly dismissed as an option. Under the plush pillows and embroidered cloth coverings, the furniture is made almost entirely of wood down to even the screws. What metal is present is either too small or too weak to be fashioned into a weapon. He’ll be better off brawling than trying to fight his way out with the gold decorating the walls. 

The broken mirror is promising though. It’s shards have already proven themselves sharp enough to cut. The two largest mirror shards work as makeshift daggers. Sure, Glenn will only get one maybe two attacks out of them before they’ll shatter, but that is fine. While Father might have favored ax— _lances_ and Glenn a sword, he had insisted that Glenn and Prince Dimitri were at least proficient in brawling.

And he’ll attack from behind—a sneak attack should increase his chances of success.

* * *

Glenn lurks near the doors as he lays in wait for the right moment to strike, patiently waiting until the doors open. Someone will have to come in eventually, either to deliver food and water or for more nefarious reasons.

Hours later the door does open and three people enter: two veiled cultists flanking _the man from the ritual_. Glenn’s grip on his weapons tightens and he decides on his target. A heartbeat passes as he waits for the cultists to be a few paces into the room.

_Now._

Mirror shards in hand, Glenn lunges at the ritual-man’s unprotected back, planning his actions as he rushes forward. He’ll drive the first shard into the man’s neck—aiming for an artery. If the first strike fails, he’ll follow up by impaling the second shard into the heart. Next he’ll throw the body at the attendant to the left and grab the—A purple barrier flashes into existence and deflects Glenn’s attack.

The unexpected recoil has him stumbling. He is quick to recover though and turned the recoil into momentum to make for a break for the still open door. However, Glenn doesn’t make it past the doorway. Instead, slamming full force into a second barrier that sends him sprawling. 

So there is some kind of magic barrier on the door. Glenn returns to his original plan and springs towards the cultists. He only has one shard left now, but if he takes out the presumed magic users then the barrier on the door might come down.

However, Glenn doesn’t get the chance to test the cultists defenses for a second time because before he can reach them, one of the veiled cultists intercepts him. Brandishing a purple book that Glenn recognizes a second too late as a grimoire, a magic circle materializing in front of the attendant. A word is spoken and Glenn is flung against the wall, held in place against it by an aura of purple energy.

It’s an unfamiliar spell; however, within the tendrils of magic he can feel a familiar taint. The spell tastes faintly like fell magic—like Grima: ancient, crushing, and malicious. Although Grima’s magic is now more highly unpleasant than the outright sickening, it still makes his head hurt.

“You destroyed your room,” the sorcerer observes blandly, as if nothing unusual had occurred and Glenn hadn’t just attempted to slit his throat. “Disappointing, if not unexpected behavior from an ignorant child. A great honor has been bestowed upon you, you know.”

“You _kidnapped_ me.” 

“Without my intervention you would be dead,” the sorcerer says dismissively, tapping his long fingers against his crossed arms. “Nothing more than a corpse forgotten and rotting in some unmarked grave.”

“So what?” Glenn hisses through bared teeth. “Do you expect me to thank you? For what exactly? So graciously sparing my life and experimenting on me? For _Grima_?”

“You _should_ be grateful,” the sorcerer says, smiling cruelly. He makes a broad sweeping motion around the room as he draws nearer. “I saved you and gave you a destiny. Now, instead of having died an insignificant and meaningless death, you have become the vessel of Lord Grima’s return to this world.”

“ _Fuck you_.”

“You will thank me in the future, boy,” the sorcerer purrs, reaching towards Glenn and running a finger across his cheek. “And, you should know we had nothing to do with Duscur.”

Glenn responds by attempting to bite the man’s hand.

“How barbaric.” 

“Says the practitioner of human sacrifice.” 

“I do as my liege commands,” the sorcerer says with a mock bow as he steps away from Glenn. “Serving Lord Grima is my honor and pleasure—as is yours.”

“That thing will destroy the entire world—you deluded sycophants included. I don’t know what in the Saints’ names you expect Grima to reward you with for freeing him, but you won’t get it. He’s going to end the world.”

“Believe me, we are well aware of our liege’s plans for this wretched world. We welcome it...and in time, so will you.”

“You’re mad,” Glenn spits. Saints, he doesn’t know whether to start laughing hysterically or screaming. These people want to destroy the world and Glenn has no doubt on Grima’s ability to deliver on the apocalypse. And he is the only thing standing between Grima and the world. 

Which, isn’t that an utterly terrifying prospect?

“Perhaps from your perspective, you’ll come to see things our way with time. I’ll be back, but in the meantime please do avoid destroying any more of your room.” the sorcerer calls as he retreats towards the door. A snap of his fingers releases the magic holding Glenn and he falls to the floor. By the time Glenn is back on his feet, mere seconds later, the door has slammed shut. 

It’s only later, after he’s tired himself out trying in vain to break down the door, that Glenn realizes the sorcerer hadn’t been speaking Fodlanesse. He’s fluent in Srengesse and _proficient_ in Ylissian, the sorcerer hadn’t been using either of those and he would have _noticed_. The man had spoken the same language as the rest of the cultists—a language Glenn certainly hadn’t known prior to getting Grima shoved into his head.

* * *

True to his word, the sorcerer and his attendants return the next day, this time with a teapot and two porcelain teacups emblazoned with Grima’s stylized eyes. Glenn is magically bound to the sofa after knocking out one of the attendants when they tried to escort him. He had been trying to kill the attendant, but he wasn't strong enough. Instead, he’d just broken the attendant’s nose.

It’s frustrating.

He didn’t used to be this week; however, confinement has taken a toll on his body. His muscles and body have weakened from lack of use, exercise, and proper training. There is more room in his new golden prison to move and exercise, but it’s limited. Without weapons, equipment, and armor it’s impossible to keep up the strength conditioning of a knight. Moreover, his current diet can’t support that kind of activity. 

Glenn glares at the sorcerer stirs his tea, lounging on the sofa across from him. The man hadn’t seemed particularly concerned with Glenn’s attack or the attendant’s injuries. He’d simply gestured for the other to drag the attendant’s unconscious body from the room. 

The silence drags on until the sorcerer decides to speak, setting down his still steaming cup on the coffee table. “I fear yesterday may not have been the best of introductions. I am Lord Validar Fauder, the devout servant of Fell Dragon Grima and the Chancellor of the Theocracy of Plegia. We will be spending a lot of time together in the future so we should get to know each other. Now tell me about yourself, Glenn Athene Fraldarius.”

The Theocracy of Plegia? He’s in _Archanea_ , on the other side of the Feroxi Sea. Getting home is going to be a lot more complicated than he had originally thought. Travel between Fodlan and Archanea is restricted to a half a dozen or so trade routes between Faerghus and the nations of Ylisse and Regna Ferox. Routes which are only passable part of the year with how the Feroxi Sea is in the autumn and winter. 

The Empire had tried to establish a route through the warmer Plegian waters, but that had fallen through rather violently. There had been an incident a decade or so again when Adrestia had tried to open trade relations with the theocracy. The only reason there hadn’t been a war was the distance separating Plegia from Fodlan. A few young nobles with Crests and big name relatives were on ship and had been spirited away by a state sanctioned cult... _oh fuck_.

“Well? Are you going to answer me?”

“I don’t socialize with kidnappers or heretics. You happen to be both,” Glenn scoffs. He thinks he understands why the Church of Seiros is so intent on stamping out heretics. Not because the discontent, violence, and chaos caused by those who denied the Goddess, but because of people like Validar. Who are right about the existence of other deities. Grima is just as real to Glenn ~~if not more so than~~ as Sothis. And Grima is not benevolent like Her.

“Well,” Validar tuts, clinking a spoon against his tea cup. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have a choice in the matter.” 

* * *

Teatime with Lord Validar became a daily occurrence after that.

At the same (presumable) time everyday, the magically reinforced double doors to Glenn’s prison swung open and Validar came sauntering in with his two attendants. The man sat down in the same velvet overly fancy armchair while Glenn was seated on the sofa across from him—either willingly (under threat) or forcefully bound there by magic. Then the attendants set the table, commencing the teatime.

Validar would fill his own cup first before the man offered to pour a cup for Glenn. It was a breach of protocol made worse by the sorcerer’s insistence that Glenn take the first sip. Not a major one given the fax casual setting, nor something he normally cared about. He cared because it was a blatant power play on Validar’s part.

And Glenn was in no position to oppose the man.

He had tried throwing the boiling leaf water at Validar the first few teatimes; however, the sorcerer had quickly taught Glenn why that was a bad idea. Just because the grimleal would never harm their liege’s precious vessel didn’t mean Validar didn’t have ways of making Glenn miserable. 

Antagonizing Validar wasn’t worth it. Glenn would still take any opening to attempt to murder the man, but the satisfaction from petty acts of spite simply didn’t outway the punishments. Especially since they didn’t get him any closer to freedom.

If the sorcerer was in a good mood or if Glenn had been particularly ‘well-behaved’ the previous day then Validar wouldn’t make him drink any more of the tea beyond the first sip. Or, when the Grimleal leader was feeling unusually generous, Glenn would be given ice water. If Validar was in a bad mode or Glenn had done _something_ to displease him (which ranged from declining sugar too rudely to trying to kill him), he forced Glenn to drink the overly sweet scalding hot liquid. 

(How Validar was able to tolerate the brew was beyond him. How could anyone drink tea—let alone steaming tea—in the oppressive Plegian heat? Glenn was already miserably enough in desert heat without the help of consuming near boiling water.)

Conversation started once both cups were filled. Validar would talk about Grima and the Grimleal. The overly familiar way the sorcerer spoke to Glenn made his hairs raise—especially when Validar went on about Glenn’s ‘grand destiny’. Inquiries would be made to the state of Glenn’s connection to the Fell Dragon. Less frequently, Validar would ask about Faerghus and Glenn himself.

Glenn had to bite his teeth and play along until the opportunity to escape arose. Because he was not going to lie down and let Grima end the world. Held captive an ocean away from home or not, Glenn is a knight of the Kingdom of Faerghus. He will not stand by and allow Grima to kill everyone he loves. 

* * *

The end of teatime is signaled with the chime of a bell.

“What a pity, it seems we are out of time for the day,” Validar sighs, setting down his teacup. The smile he gives Glenn is sickeningly as he snaps his finger, summoning one of the attendants forward. “I must depart; however, first I have a gift for you, my boy.”

“A gift? You shouldn’t have,” Glenn says, eyeing Validar warily. “You shouldn’t have. I can’t accept this when I have nothing to give you in return.”

The attendant is trying to hand him the wrapped square package. Whatever this is, Glenn doesn't want it. Validar has broken the teatime script and Glenn doesn’t know what the sorcerer’s angle is. 

“Nonsense, you have behaved so well recently. I know the last few weeks haven’t been easy for you. You deserve a reward.”

“But Lord Vali-” 

“ _Open it_. ” Validar’s tone leaves no room for protest. 

Opening the package reveals a book—a novel titled The First Wyvernrider of Plegia. Glenn does not like the gleam in Validar’s eyes.

“I believe you mentioned a fondness for books, did you not? What do you think?”

“It’s a thoughtful gift and I look forward to reading it,” Glenn says, forcing himself to return the sorcerer’s smile as he imagines running the man through with a sword. What game is Validar playing? “You are too generous Lord Validar.”

“Now, now, my boy,” Validar smirks, standing up and looking down at Glenn with red, malice-filled, eyes. “Please call me Father.”

 _The fuck?_ Fort Merceus would fall before Glenn called Validar that.

“Lo—”

“My boy, did I not just tell you to call me Father?”

“Forgive my rudeness, _Validar_ ; however, I already have a father and he is most certainly not you.”

“I fail to understand why you are being stubborn about this, my son—”

“Do not call me that.”

“Very well. Let’s make a little wager then,” Validar says slowly, his face contorting into a familiar sinister smirk. “I will ask you a question about your father and if you can answer it correctly then I will never again ask you to call me ‘Father’ nor will I address you as ‘my son’ again.”

“And if I can’t?” Glenn asks suspiciously. “And what sort of question would you be asking?”

“Well, you will call me ‘Father’ without complaint from now on,” Validar answers with a lazy mocking shrug. “As for the question, something simple you would be able to answer about even me.”

“Fine, ask the question.”

“What is his name?”

“Father’s name is…it’s...his n-name is…” Glenn trails off as he realizes with horror that he 

give an answer—he doesn’t know it. He can’t _remember_ the name of the man who raised him. His mind is blank. Information that Glenn knew he had known— _gone_. 

“I thought so,” Validar’s smirk is wicked. “I believe I won our little wager, _my son_.”

Glenn snarls. “What did you do?!”

“ _Behave_ ,” Validar scowls and Glenn’s body freezes involuntarily. “Lord Grima’s power can have...rather corrosive effects on the mind and body. I’m afraid your mind isn’t as immune to these effects as Grima’s body-to-be’s.”

“Fuck you!”

“You’ve said that before. Regardless, the longer you resist Lord Grima the more of your memory will be chipped away until everything you are is eventually forgotten and nothing remains. Lord Grima will consume you eventually. It's a futile fight. Delaying your fate will just erase the person you are first,” Validar says cruelty and leans over Glenn, his beady red eyes boring into his amber-gold. His words are utterly devoid of any trace of the false pleasantness from earlier. “In any case, you will call me Father from now on. As the one who created you, I believe I have a much better claim to the title than some man you can’t even remember the name of. Don’t you agree?”

“No!”

“You _will_ call me Father from now on,” Validar commands, his voice dripping with ice and unspoken threats.

“Watch your tongue, boy,” Validar’s voice is devoid of the false pleasantness. His voice is dripping with ice and unspoken threats when he addresses Glenn. “You will call me Father from now on.”

Glenn needs to escape. 

Soon, before he forgets he has a home and family to return to.

Before he forgets who Glenn is.

* * *

“Do you not understand how lucky you are to be the vessel of Lord Grima?” The man he must call Father asks, looking at Glenn like he’s some petulant child.

“Of course,” Glenn understands exactly how _lucky_ he is to be playing host to a malevolent god of destruction. And what he is goes beyond being simply _unlucky._ “But surely there must have been other more qualified vessels among the Grimleal, like you.”

“I would gladly offer my body to Lord Grima, if only I was able,” Father says with a mournful shake of his head. “Alas, my body is not a suitable vessel for our liege. Not like yours, my son. You are perfect.”

“But  _ why  _ am I perfect?” 

“The blood of divine dragons runs strong in your veins and not a drop of it bears the taint of Naga or that of her spawn,” the sorcerer says, his lip curling in disgust as he continues. “Regrettably, the same can not be said of any of the remaining fellblood bloodlines.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisions are being made.


	4. Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1177, ???.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait...I kinda got distracted writing the sequel?

“When will Father be here? I’m _bored_ ,” Glenn asks as he picks through the bookshelf behind the chancellor’s desk. He drags the statement and shoots his watchers a look of annoyance over his shoulder for good measure. They let him get away with more when he acts like a spoiled brat. 

“I’m afraid it will still be a while yet, my liege. There is an urgent matter that your lord father must attend to first.”

So he will have some time outside his cage without Father supervising him—an unfortunate rarity. Glenn will have to make the most of it. 

“But he’s never late,” Glenn grumbles, casually sliding a book titled ‘The Archanea Atlas’ off the shelf. 

“Uh, perhaps my liege could find another book to occupy his time with?” the main watcher coughs, shifting uncomfortably. “Your father would likely not approve of your choice of reading material.” 

“So?” Glenn shrugs disdainfully. “I’m bored and Father isn’t here.”

“But—”

“Be quiet, you’re annoying me.” Making himself comfortable at Father’s desk, Glenn smirks as the grimleal watcher falls silent and steps back, retreating to stand by the door with the other two watchers. Without Father there to override him, the grimleal underlings are not inclined to deny or oppose Glenn. 

Opening the atlas, Glenn is pleased to find information on more than just the Theocracy of Plegia. There is a map of the entire continent of Archanea. There are three nations, Glenn learns: Plegia in the south, Regna Ferox to the north, and the Halidom of Ylisse between them. 

Glenn ignores the section on Plegia and flips immediately to the chapter on Regna Ferox—a land of snow and ice. Father can claim the Plegian desert is his home all the man wants, but he remembers playing in the snow with his brother. 

He’ll go to Regna Ferox when he escapes the Grimleal.

By the time Father arrives, Glenn has exchanged the atlas for a much more acceptable text on grimleal theology. He has also torn out two pages of the atlas’s pages and hidden them in his boot: a map of Archanea and a page from the chapter on Regna Ferox. A guide and a reminder.

“Good evening, Father,” Glenn says, setting aside the theology text and greeting his kidnapper with a practiced smile. “I was worried when you weren’t here to meet me. I heard you were held up by something urgent. Is everything well?”

“Nothing you should concern yourself with, my son,” Father shakes his head dismissively, sitting down at his desk and beginning to shuffle papers. “One of our... _business associates_ are simply taking issue with how certain resources they provided us are being used. Inconvenient as it may be, ending our relationship with them will not cause us any major issues. We have already gotten what we needed from them. In any case, the matter will be taken care of soon enough. Now tell me about your day.”

Glenn pretends not to notice the way Father looks directly at him as he said the last part. There are implications in that statement that Glenn knows better than to pursue immediately. Father is more receptive to digging if questions are asked two to three days later. Far enough removed by time that the man has forgotten what specific piece of information Glenn is searching for.

“But my day was boring, I want to hear more about what you did.” 

“ _M_ _y son_.” 

“Fine, I finished the novels you gave me and I reread the sacred texts. I was summoned to your office and read some more waiting for you,” Glenn sighs, sitting down in an armchair a short distance away from the desk. Close enough to seem like he is comfortable sharing his space with Father, yet far enough away the man could not reach him without standing up. “Father, I enjoy reading, but all I do is read in my room. Can’t I do something else? Please?”

“You are well aware of why you must stay in your room,” Father says, frowning disapprovingly at Glenn. “Through you our liege is vulnerable until he has taken possession of your body. His resurrection could be delayed a thousand more years should anything befall you.”

Despite the reminder of the _nightmarish horror_ lurking at the edges of his mind waiting for a chance to devour his soul and make a puppet of the husk left behind, Glenn grits his teeth and pushes on. He has a part to play if he is to have any chance at freedom. “I know my duty, but I can’t even remember the last time I went outside, Father. Can’t I read in the garden every now and then? Or visit the library to pick out books myself sometimes? If you’re with me there would be no risk. No one could dare lay a hand on me.”

Father is entirely unamused, judging by his face.

“Or, if you can’t spare the time, perhaps I could accompany you to some of your meetings?” Glenn tries. “Please, Father? I’m just so tired of my room.” _Please loosen the leash around my neck._

“...I’ll consider it. Perhaps introduce you to some along the Grimleal’s upper echelon,” Father says slowly. His voice is cold and there is a calculating glint in his eyes that makes Glenn uneasy. Still, his heart swells with hope. Every scrap of freedom, even limited, is precious.

“Thank you, Father.”

“Have you had any contact with Lord Grima today?”

“No.” Not a total lie, Grima hadn’t made any attempts to seize control recently. Glenn is beginning to suspect that the possession attempts are as unpleasant for the fell dragon as they are for him, if for different reasons. 

“A pity,” Father clicks, getting up from his desk. “Well, in light of recent developments it may be for the best if you learn to defend yourself. You’re _irreplaceable_ .” Another point towards these ‘ _business associates_ ’ being involved in his kidnapping.

“May I have a sword?”

Father scoffs. “I am not so foolish as to arm you with a sword.”

_Which is unfortunate._

“Why not, Father?” Glenn asks, tilting his head to the side innocently and playing dumb. He isn’t sure how much Father knows he knows. Glenn is confident the man is at least partly fooled, but not to what degree.

“Magic is a weapon much more befitting of your station.”

* * *

Like everything else in Glenn’s life, his study in magic is dictated almost entirely by Father’s will. The branch of magic chosen for him is anima—elemental magic. While the man does allow Glenn to pick which type of anima magic to study, the decision between three grimoire—three _tomes ,_ is not a particularly meaningful one. An illusion of control to gloss over the reality of his captivity. He suspects Father isn’t teaching him the dark magic he specializes in because the man doesn’t want him able to understand the magic being used to keep him trapped.

The majority of his theoretical lessons take place in his room, but occasionally Father summons him to his office instead. Practical lessons are held in a large windowless hall not far from his cage. Despite the additional quality time spent with Father, Glenn finds the lessons marginally enjoyable. 

Magic is genuinely interesting and the rush of electricity is exhilarating. Plus, there is something deeply therapeutic about smiting training dummies with lightning while visualizing Father. _One day_ , Glenn promises himself. _One day_.

“Again.”

Obeying, Glenn raises his hand and channels his magic through the yellow tome. Sparks arch up and down his arm as the magic circle spins into existence in front of him. Power builds, and then: “ _Thunder!_ ”

Lightning streaks across the room and obliterates the target slab of stone.

“Slow,” Father tuts, crossing his arms behind Glenn. “The enemy will not stand still and wait for you to hit them. You must be faster. Do it again.”

“Of course, Father,” Glenn nods as he raises his hand and prepares to cast again. Father has become increasingly concerned with Glenn’s ability to defend himself as of late. He’s become more paranoid in general. He doesn’t allow anyone in Glenn’s presence unattended these days. His squad of watchers has shrunk considerably, Father doesn’t seem to trust them anymore.

“ _Thunder!_ ” Another target is destroyed.

“Better. Now start running and continue casting until the tome breaks.” Thunder tomes could be used as a magical conduit forty-five times before being destroyed. So thirty-eight more uses. 

“ _Thunder!_ ”

“ _Thunder!_ ”

“ _Thunder!_ ”

“ _Thunder!_ ”

“ _Thunder!_ ”

When the tome finally crumbles to dust, Glenn is panting and sweating. He hates how weak he feels, running for an hour should be easy, not make his sides hurt. His exhaustion is physical, not magical—Father had been very pleased to discover Glenn could continue casting indefinitely. That Grima’s power is intertwined with Glenn’s in a way that rendered his own reserves effectively inexhaustible. 

“The grimoire is broken.”

“Tome,” Father corrects. “That was not a grimoire, that was a tome. You are to refer to them as such.”

“Yes, Father.” Glenn imagines blasting the man with a Thunder.

* * *

It’s been a while but not a  _ while _ since Father moved them to a stronghold in the east. The capital was filled with snakes and it was no longer safe to keep him there. His new room is much like his last one. Perhaps a bit less luxurious and with a lot less gold, but the cage remains functionally the same.

Father likely drugged him.

He doesn’t remember the journey here, he slept through it. 

Sparks of electricity dance between his fingers as he practices molding the magic without the aid of his tome. It’s tricky, but it gives him something to work on in secret while Father is away visiting the capitol. He has some time before the man returns and he wants to master the spell by then.

It would be a perfect opportunity and excuse for a making a murder attempt on the man. Learning to cast a spell tomelessly in secret in order to impress the man, only for the spell to miss fire and fry the bastard with as much electricity as he can generate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what troublesome business associates Validar is dealing with? Not that it will be relevant to the later story...not till Corenlia shows up at least.


	5. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1177, ???.

He is glad Father is occupied far away in the capitol because Grima is going to make another attempt to devour him soon. Not yet, but soon. He can feel the fell dragon pressing in on him and he appreciates not having to hold Grima off and deal with Father at the same time.

Possession attempts are never pleasant affairs, even if he believes they’ve become easier to thwart. Grima is unfathomably more powerful than he is, but that didn’t mean much when Grima needs his human vessel _alive_. The fell dragon could easily flood his body with enough of his power to overwhelm him—killing him in the process. 

If he died, Grima would need a new vessel and there is a very real possibility that the fell dragon would have to wait another thousand years before the Grimleal found another human who could bear the Heart of Grima. 

So, as far as he is concerned, Grima can either shut up and let him live his life or kill him, leaving the fell dragon naked in a blizzard. Live or die, he will win as long he doesn’t give in. Grima has taken everything from him. He can’t even remember what his original reason for slamming the door in the fell dragon’s face was at this point. 

But, who needs a reason when they have determination and _spite_?

So he waits.

* * *

The shaking of his room is the first clue that something has gone terribly wrong with Father’s plan. Plegia doesn’t get earthquakes and the force that had rocked the building hadn’t felt like one. It was an explosion most likely—a very large one.

He can’t hear anything from his room—he’s too far underground—but he thinks it’s safe to assume that the fortress is under attack. Father chose to lock him up here for a _reason_ : He is the only thing of interest within its walls, the only thing of interest for _miles_. 

The only reason the fortress isn’t completely abandoned is because he is here. It’s an old border fortress leftover from a war that ended over a decade ago; a highly defensible stronghold that had fallen into obsolescence when the border moved. _Nothing_ is supposed to happen here.

So something is clearly wrong.

The doors to his room are locked and probably reinforced by some kind of barrier—he hadn’t had an excuse to test them that would satisfy Father enough to avoid his wrath. A possible attack is a more than adequate excuse if he’s caught. Tome in hand, he takes aim at the doors. Electricity flows down his arm, gathering and sparking in his hand as he does his best to overload the spell. “ _Thunder!”_

He isn’t sure if it’s because Father had grown complicate with his wards or if he had managed to successfully overload the barrier, regardless the doors are blasted clean off their hinges and are obliterated. Stepping over the threshold to his cage and into the hallway is utterly exhilarating. 

Unfortunately, he knows better than to stick around and savor the moment of freedom. He needs to move. The Grimleal will not be distracted by whomever causes the explosion forever and he does not want to be found and dragged back to his room. Nor does he want to be found and killed by Father and Grima’s enemies. He needs to make the most of this opportunity.

Navigating the maze of unfamiliar corridors proved to be a challenge and he has to rely on guesswork and luck to find his way. Some of the tunnels are marginally less dusty and abandoned then others, the torches are warm too. 

Soon he finds the stairs and half way up the first flight when he runs into two grimleal: a sorcerer and a swordsman. He’s preparing to blast the cultists when the sorcerer grabs his arms and begins pulling him after her, the swordsman hurrying after them with his weapon draw. 

“Let go of me!” 

“Forgive me,” the sorcerer says, but she doesn’t release his arm. Instead she continues to descend deeper and deeper into the tunnels, dragging him after her. “But we must bring you to safety, my liege.”

“It’s not safe for you to remain here,” The swordsman agrees gravely, following behind them. “There are secret tunnels that lead into the desert. The intruders won’t find them in time to stop us.”

He stops resisting as he reconsiders his exit strategy. He lets the grimleal guide him down through the passages. Occasionally as they ran, the walls and ceiling shake from the distant explosion of spells. He’s reasonably sure that the ceiling isn’t going to collapse on them, but the experience is nerve racking nonetheless.

“How much further until we’re out of the tunnels?” He asks, glancing calculating at the grimleal. “And what is the plan afterward? How will we reunite with Father?”

“Not far,” the sorcerer answers as they take a sharp left turn. “Another few minutes and we’ll reach the exit. We’ll be on the Ylissian side of the border so we’ll have to move quickly and find a place to hide. I’ll send a message to Lord Validar once we’re safe.”

 _Validar_ , so that was Father’s name? It sounded as vile as it’s bearer. Interesting, he’d try to remember it; however, the information that truly caught his attention was their destination: out of Plegia to Ylisse.

The image of an Archanea map hidden away under a coffee table flashes through his mind. Plegia to the south, Ylisse in the center, and Regna Ferox to the far north. He wanted to go to Ferox, that’s why he’d taken the map from Fath— _Validar_. Ylisse is a lot closer to Ferox than Plegia is. He can’t help the smirk on his face. He’s _so close_. 

* * *

He strikes when the swordsman is distracted opening the trapdoor exit and the sorcerer is scanning for threats in the direction they had come. While both grimleal are on the alert, they are on watch for hostile pursuers—not a betrayal from the vessel of their god that they are protecting.

The sorcerer only glances back briefly when he approaches her from behind before she refocuses on the tunnel behind them. He isn’t touching his tome. She might have thought he was drawing so close because he was scared. He doesn’t know, but he kills her with a point blank _Thunder_ in her back.

She dies instantly and close range recoil leaves his hand numb and twitching. There isn’t time to dwell on that though, there is still the swordsman he needs to deal with. The swordsman is turning around to face him as he raises his hand.

“ _Thunder!_ ” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a crest flash into existence on the back of his left hand as he shouts the spell. He doesn’t get a good look at it before it fades. The pattern is different from the brand on his right and the light had been more light lavender than Grima’s sickly violet. The rush of power is intriguing though. Something to investigate later, for now he has two grimleal bodies to loot. 

He kneels down and takes the sword from one of the swordsman’s corpse. Validar had refused to allow him near any blade sharper than a butter knife. Maybe he knew how to use swords? He could always pawn it if he couldn’t. Plus, he is absolutely reveling in being able to defy Validar.

Climbing up the ladder and exiting the tunnels through the trap door, he finds himself at the edge of a dimly lit forest. Beyond the foliage are fields that stretch for miles into the distance. The fields are to the north, he determines from the direction of the barely visible dawn sun. He’ll follow the fields then, Ferox is to the north.

As he walks, Grima grows loader. The fell dragon is roaring and clawing at him. Grima is more insistent than usual, he notes as he concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. Well, Grima is always insistent. Maybe desperate is a better word for what he feels from the dragon? The god seems almost...scared? 

Which, he reflects as dark spots begin to dance at the edge of his vision, is weird. Usually he’s the one drowning in primal terror, desperately trying to find some semblance of solid ground in his mind as everything crumbles away, not the other way around. 

_And are there two dragons roaring?_ He wonders as he sways and stumbles. Then darkness consumes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And _finished_.


End file.
